Irritable Arrse Syndrome

Discussion in 'Now That's What I Call NAAFI Bar' started by convoy_cock, Nov 1, 2004.

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  1. I thought I was the only sufferer.

    I was up on Penrith Beacon last week doing some survey work, and was talking to a couple of ex-booties. We got into a conversation about the aforementioned condition. I could feel the weight coming off my shoulders as I realised I wasn’t the only one.

    I’ve had Irritable Arrse Syndrome for as long as I can remember. It’s a condition that has one simple characteristic. I always need to have a sh*t at the worst possible times. Fair enough, you’d think, when you’re a young lad in the army and constantly find yourself with plenty of cover for impromptu shovel recces, but, for fcuks sake, I’m a 35 year old father of three, with a reasonably responsible job. Yet I still find myself driving up the motorway, sweating like a safe-cracker, panicking about where I can pull over to have a turd. It happens at least once a week. I’ll be bimbling up the M6 listening into radio 4 and spending imaginary lottery winnings, when, BANG, I get hit by a big sh*t cramp. You know the type; it takes superhuman effort to keep your ricker shut. That’s when the cold sweating starts and the calculations begin. 12 Miles to Southwaite Services, can I hold it in for ten minutes? I’m trying to think of anything but the horses head that’s pushing me up off the seat. 6 miles. I’ve squeezed off the last fart leaving nothing but a dense gateaux blocking my rectum. 3 miles. Should make it now, but I’m beginning to feel faint with the effort of maintaining balloon-knot integrity. Into the services and pull up at the nearest possible spot to the bogs. I walk over to trap one like Charlie fcuking Chaplin attempting the mutually exclusive pastimes of walking fast but keeping your bum cheeks tight together.

    Into the bog, down with the trolleys, and I’ve done it. Never mind Chariots of Fire, there is no greater feeling than beating the crap-clock. I always walk out jauntily and usually treat myself to a bit of a shake of the right leg just before I get back into the car.

    Like I say, I thought I was the only one until I talked to these two guys. One of the booties had me in stitches telling me about an adventure he’d had the week before. Trying to beat the crap-clock, he was negotiating the one way system in Leeds on a Friday lunchtime. He was reading a map whilst trying to drive and sit on the handbrake at the same time. He got one off before disaster struck, but said that he’d had to pull up like Starsky and Hutch outside a pub. He’d left a vehicle full of laptops etc at a bus-stop, with the doors open. He managed to make it to the bog and almost scored a perfect hit, leaving a small, cadburys crème egg sized deposit on the floor of Trap two.

    Has anyone else suffered mishaps of this nature? Booze induced sh*t-needing is not included, because it completely removes the embarrassment factor.
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  2. not really the same but last week I woke up needing to throw up (non beer related). went over to my sink and started chuckin, then realised I had to take a crap. I did my best to clench my arrse but with one big heave I lost control and filled my boxer shorts

    I spent the next half hour sitting on my bin, leaning over my sink, puking and shitin (if you can call it that, it was like milkshake)
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  3. Just when you think the NAAFI has gone to the dogs, Convoy throws us a belter :D

    I can assure you its not just you mate, the cack clock is a constant source of agony and discomfort for me, with a particular blackspot on the M-6 that I have fallen victim to on three occasions.

    The last time happened about 6 six weeks ago, I left the house as normal to attend a meeting in Warrington... The traffic was building up, so I ignored common sense, got suited up and dived in the car without crimping one off.

    As I came from the M-55 to the M-6 I got a bolt of pain similar to being hoofed up the hoop by a chap in cowboy boots... I was in no doubt that there was a mud beast trying to get out, no matter how much I pleaded with him to stay put a little while longer...

    For the next three miles it stoved away at my brown barn door with a lump hammer and chisel, making me lift my arse off the seat and clench as though I was stopping Micheal Jackson have his way with me.

    I decided it was make or break time and threw the motor out into the third lane and booted it like a maniac..... The service station grew nearer and the vietnamese turd tunneler continued poking its way out and chalking my undercrackers.... leaving me a note to say 'Im fcuking coming like it or not'

    As I grew closer I was wedged in by a truck and a nazi in a white van, I couldn't get into the inside lane... I began to cry... the exit for the services passed me by as the alarm on the crap clock chimed, filling my trollies with a mass of gravy mixed up with 7up...... as I looked up through the glass in the service station bridge, I saw a sign for the gents.. glimmering and teasing me.

    Not all stories have happy endings.... Three times I have blown mud in exactly the saem spot....

    I have approached the Roads department and asked them to place a warning on the roadside, but they wrote back calling me a 'dirty cnut' :D
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    • Funny Funny x 2
  4. Top post.

    Christ, I thought it was just me. I have avoided the full trollie chunder to date but it's been a close run thing. My body has created its own early warning system; the inadvertant fart. It is the audible sound of a wet bubble popping and signals almost 30 seconds to lift off. I was talking to a tour group of year 10 girls at my work the other day when in the silent second between one word and another the pop cracked like a whip. I immediately kicked the chair to disguise the source but they all knew and as I bolt from the room the laughter was like a dagger in the back.

    What worries me is losing the 30 second warning.
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  5. Absolutley brilliant cheered me up no end ever one is looking at me as though I'm a deranged lunatic
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  6. you can normally set your watch by my "movements" so i can plan my day accordingly without the need to break into that funny hoppy jog people dying for a sh*t do when they're caught short , but on a trip to Oz last year , my normal routine was thrown into turmoil with disasterous consequences.
    on a day trip to the rainforest in queensland , i was in the back of a four wheel drive , and a quarter of the way into a big drive, when i felt the first internal lurches that signalled yesterdays dinner was on the move and about to put in an appearance , it was boiling hot , humid as f*ck , and i cracked out the last bit of gas cushion before a solid push, this did not go down at all well with the other 6 people on the day trip , who all shuffled away from me muttering what a dirty c*nt i was and winding down the windows , by this stage , we were on some pretty rough roads , and the bouncing up and down on my nearly protruding log was flattening its normally tapered head and pushing up on my diaphragm,
    i started to sweat profusely , and must have looked like a drug mule who's had a bag of heroin burst in their stomach , i couldn't even do the normal cheek shuffling routine because i was penned in on both sides so it was merely the suction produced by pulling in on my stomach muscles and hyperventilating that was preventing something that looked like the play dough barber shop coming out the back of my trousers.
    eventually after what felt like seven years on the move we pulled in at a lunch stop , my next problem was how to remove myself and my new friend from the wagon without losing the last little bit of grip i had on a "breather ring " and filling my strides , so i ended up getting out of the wagon like a 90 year old with 2 plastic hips , the "john inman" walk to the toilet was one of the longest of my life , and every fly in Queensland anticipating what was about to happen was already starting to hover around me , the toilet was the old thunderbox type , and as my dreadnought left the slipway , to much cheering and flag waving i swear it touched bottom before snapping off , and falling over sideways like a felled spruce.
    after a quick "cloth check" and realising despite everything i was wheelspin free , i moonwalked back to the motor a happier ,lighter man.
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  7. When I first started going out with my wife, we went away for the Easter Bank Holiday '94 to Paris.

    It was a lovely weekend. I pretended that I appreciated the work of modern artists and she pretended that the suits of armour in Les Invalides were interesting.

    On the last night we had a lovely meal in Montmarte and then walked back to the hotel. The first cramp kicked in with about 20 minutes of walking left, and after a couple I had to admit what the problem was. Thank fcuk that there are bollards everywhere in Paris. Every 10 metres i'd have to stop and sit on one, allowing the concrete to further compact the monster that was trying to escape. After a couple of seconds i'd be ready to move on to the next one. It was very romantic actually. She'd stand there with a slightly bemused look on her face, as I conducted an internal dialogue that went something like.

    "Ok, sh*t has gone back up for a second. Prepare to move, MOVE."

    By the time we got back to the room, the turd was as dense as lead, and came out as a complete mould of my insides. I was backed up as far as my oesophagus.

    The bollard trick was something i'd used as a child, but then it was known as a "Dave Mcreery" Mcreery was a popular player for Man United in the 70's and on all the footy card photos he adopted the same pose. Squatted down, with his left hand resting on the ball, and the heel of his right footy boot, jammed squarely up his arrse. Try it next time you get caught short. Not only will you prevent involuntary defecation, people will think you're a professional footballer.
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  8. RTFQ


    I don't have any non-beer sh't stories myself (except one resulting from 3 weeks of biscuit brown and me mam's newly installed armitage shanks - but we've all been there). I have however had experience of the kind of "dirty fun" normally reserved for the more specialist german fumble-films, with an ex girlfriend in France.

    We'd decided to visit the local chinky for that authentic French romantic evening. After a couple of vintage Kingfishers, she went for chicken in black bean sauce with special fried rice and I'd gone for something unspecified in noodles. After a lovely meal and much interesting conversation on my part (this one time, in Kosovo/Bosnia/Amsterdam...) we retired to our plush one-star hotel-cum-allotment shed for what I thought would be a night of outlaw monkey-love. I was wrong.

    No sooner had I 'let the hounds see the hare' so to speak, did shorty turn a funny shade of green. Used to this courtship ritual (I'm no oil painting), I immediately resorted to my piece-to-end-all-resistance, the Tuppence Tickle. Shorty runs to 'le bog' making a sound reminiscent of a Scooby Do ghost, what REALLY needs a sh@t. So she's merrily purging 'roman-style' in the toilet and I'm feeling sorry for myself as I'd pawned some of my 1157 at Blackbush Market in order to pay for this trip, and was wandering what the upcoming Ex PEGGY DRAGON (Sennybrige, February) would be like without gortex and a bivvy bag. Little RTFQ was similarly despondant.

    Anyway, she finishes and curls into bed alongside me, all vulnerable and ill. Now, we were at the stage in our relationship when we hold hands in front of our mates and I tell her I love her even when I know I'm not going to get any, so it was fairly serious. The sight of her feeling poorly was enough to soften my steely eyed horneyness and make my black unfeeling heart spasm in a pretence of affection, so I cuddles her. A Big manly Spoon-like cuddle and then I start to rub her tummy to make the pain go away. Now I know enough about safety distances, arcs of fire and general range safety to have known better, but at the end of the day - Love turns us all into Guards officers: chinless, grinning fukcwits who'd wear pink shirts and red cords if we thought it would impress her.

    Predictably, she fell asleep and I lay there, feeling heroic like H Jones (wondering from which side I'll catch it). Round about midnight, the SPAL erupts, I get girlfriend-processed special fried rice all over my belly and thighs (thank the good lord of Fook for boxer shorts). She looks round with a look of horror (and I'm sure, looking back, a hint of "Have that you inadequate Bastard!"), but the sight of her own muck all over the favourite bits of her beloved was too much - and she hurled down my chest.

    Not wishing to wait for the "Triple Crown", I react swiftly to incoming and drag her to the bathroom - put her on the toilet while I lay foetal under the shower, rocking slowly and chanting "find a happy place, find a happy place". I told her afterwards that "really, it was fine, you couldn't help it sweetheart - as long as you feel better now, of course I still love you, silly."

    She left me six weeks later for a m*therf***ing PJI.

    Love eh?
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  9. Cutaway

    Cutaway LE Reviewer

    This is bloody spooky !

    Just a few minutes before Convoy posted I had exactly one of these near-death experiences.

    Just made a brew & stood staring out of the window at the unending steppes waiting for Ghengis & his horde to show over the distant horizon, when BANG ! I doubled over like Corporal waiting for Flash.
    Brew all over the shop, fag disintegrated in the puddle of TyPhoo's best and a feeling like one of the slitty-eyed riders had just eviscerated me.

    Being pretty switched on I knew what was coming, the twitching hoop going half-a-crown/sixpence was a pretty good combat indicator too, and I knew I'd have to attempt to stagger out to the bog before I ruined my personal following-through record and a damn fine pair of shorts into the bargain.

    The stagger, or perhaps waddle is a better description, is well known to all sufferers, but when the gut wrenching agony keeps you doubled over like Groucho Marx, it makes keeping the Mars bar breakout in place nigh on impossible. Moving with the speed of a thousand startled gazelles and the grace of a gut-shot warthog I scuttled through the living room toward the safety of the adjoining khazi, not wasting ant time on poofy indulgencies like shutting doors and such.

    Top skilled arrse I am, I made it in time and the drop to the seat was simultaneous with the window rattling blast of a Wombat class fart. Then silence...... No impact, no follow up......

    "All that for a fart Cuts ? You're losing your grip son !"

    Anyway, as you do, I took a shufti into the pan to see if there was any curry sauce and rice pebbledashing the porcelain.
    JUSSUS ! The damn thing was nearly overflowing with split and ragged jobbies, and I'd been certain I'd dropped nothing of interest ! But then I also noticed a distinct lack of gravy, and there's always gravy when this occurs. A quick glance into my lower garments revealed that I'd not filled me trollies, but only because I don't wear them. The shorts on the other hand were buggered to hell, and what hadn't tried to filter itself through them had painted two huge birthmarks down my legs.

    Twenty-five yards of paper and a leap into the shower later I emerged once again smelling of roses, and to my utter surprise the two Jehovas Witness girlies who'd been sat on the sofa with a brew had disappeared !

    The question is do I contact the Vatican or the JWs to register my arrse as a performer of authentic miracles ?
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  10. Three Fridays ago, I had the dubious pleasure of snapping one off just near the small northern town of Aspatria.

    For those of you who are interested, my faeces can be located at grid NY 1850 4265 (Landranger Sheet 85) just in the corner of the woods.

    Despite it being nearly a month ago, I had a good look at it and I don't think the local bluebottles will be able to polish it off 'til gone Christmas. 12 figure grid available on request.
  11. i've heard the locals are using it to direct traffic

    "the old farm? yes ,up the lane to the wood , and turn right at the large ebony turd."
  12. I'm looking forward to the ARRSE Crap Map...there could be a prize for the fastest to visit all the turds
  13. Now, I'm not normally one for regular 'touching cloth' moments - my timing is pretty regular (rather like the JIT business method), but the impact force is not normally of dambusting proportions.

    One occasion merits mention, however. I had been staying at Crickowell camp in Wales, in the days when they liked to give the food rations out in 10 man rat packs instead of cash. Or food... We were staying on the tented field, and had a reg. chef who was working miricles with the tinnies. This was rather a change of consistency of diet to what I am used to, which results in a change in consistency of end product. It had also unfortunately changed my production line from JIT to reserve stock holding; in this case, war maintenance reserve stock holding.

    We were route marking in the Black Mountains - we'd walked up Lord Hereford's Knob, and along to Waun Fach. I was moving south down the East ridge to check on the other route point at Pen y Gadair Fawr, when the Work's Supervisor rang to say that the storage capacity of the facility had been exceeded, and some stock was going to have to be surplussed. About a km from my destination, things were getting dire, and a serious management decision concerning the presence of a turtle's head was needing to be reached. I reached the strategic objective, and informed my oppo in true British style that, "I may be some time", and could I please pike his remaining rat pack handy andies. Having succesfully nabbed his tissues, I descended a few 10s of metres off the summit to get out of the wind & rain, with the most extreme bow-legged, sphincter-constraining gait that I could muster. At this point I did what any good, panicking, desperate person would do - kicked a small hollow, dropped the gore tex, trousers & shreddies, and adopted the position.

    Egress started... And continued... And continued...

    At about this point I started to seriously worry whether the 'surplus deposit hollow' would be big enough for the required duty, and seriously contemplated what to do in the event of a back-up. So, as the amazing thing coiled itself underneath me like a supertanker's mooring line, I started to raise the position.

    And the laying of the behemoth continued...

    Having adjusted the delivery position, there came another few problems: Firstly, the shreddies & trousers were becoming precariously close to the point-of-departure, and the Welsh wind had chilled my behind to the extent that it was so numb that I could have been rodgered black and blue by a very camp but very well-endowed prop forward and not even have noticed. When I had given enough time to safely assume that all was clear, I stood up, checked for damage, about turned, and surveyed the scene. In front of me stood the largest pile of compo crap I have ever seen in my life, with the consistency of plasticine and the colour of cheap curry.

    It's probably still there 7 yrs on at 231288...
  14. Interesting thing about compo crap, is that you always find you have it under complete control until you are in a vehicle and moving, or half way through an attack. Once had to sneak one in Imber Village during a Fibua exercise, mid-contact (while still covering my arcs). After evacuating the house, apparently, a chap from the opfor went diving through the window head first and landed in my deposit face first, greatly adding to his 'local camoflague' and, no doubt, fcuking up his privately purchased gucci sas smock. Heh.
  15. Gentlemen. I'm sitting here skullf**ked after a hard day and this thread is an absolute tonic.

    I thought I was the only one who suffered from the brown Trident leaving the launch tube on a no notice launch, but it seems I'm amongst kindred spirits.